The Northern Light

by A. J. Cronin

  Although when put to it, Leonard could turn out a tasty double column on Freud, psychology was slightly off his beat, and, of course, he fully realized he’d never even exchanged a word with young Page’s wife, still less laid a finger on her. But while he couldn’t explain it, she gave him the same sort of reaction he had previously experienced – that in some circumstances, not particularly creditable to him, he had been associated with her before. He told himself it must be pure imagination. He might merely have caught a glimpse of her when she came to do her shopping in Hedleston and this, registered at the back of his mind, might well have produced the illusion of previous association. And yet … he wasn’t quite convinced. Uncertainty was beginning to get him down when Smith walked in. Nye watched him as he sat down, took off his hat and mopped the rain from behind his ears.

  ‘Nothing came through,’ he said, ‘so I thought I’d join you. Peter’s looking after the phone. It’s chilly in the office.’

  ‘Have a drink?’

  ‘I think I might’ He moistened his lips nervously.

  Nye waited. He’d been expecting this for some time. He knew Smith … through and through. He knew that although he passed for a strict Good Templar, when he was in real trouble he gave way. For him it was poison and afterwards he had the most ghastly remorse, but on three occasions, to Leonard’s knowledge, he had gone out on a terrific splurge – not for fun, but because he couldn’t help it. In Australia when he lost his job with the Melbourne Echo he went on a bender that lasted for three months. Two years ago, the summer his wife left him, he spent his whole vacation in a Brixton pub and wound up on the verge of DTs. So now Nye was curious.

  ‘What are you having?’ Smith asked.

  ‘Scotch and a beer.’

  ‘Well …’ He gave a kind of sick smile. ‘I’ll just have my ginger ale.’

  ‘Not yet, chum,’ Leonard thought. ‘But it’s coming to you, all the same.’

  There was a long silence. The rain beat on the window. The saloon was empty. In the public bar two men were arguing about next Saturday’s football results, puzzling over tables of computations in Mighill’s Globe, which neither could understand. Nye tried to turn his thoughts towards Cannes and the possibilities of the film festival, but they wouldn’t go there.

  ‘Look, Smith,’ he said at last. ‘It may surprise you, but I think we ought to go to this concert.’

  ‘Concert?’

  ‘Page’s charity do. On Saturday.’

  Smith stared at Nye, sunk in his chair, his overcoat draped around him.

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘I’m not sure whether I am or not. But I vote we go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just an idea.’

  ‘You and your ideas.’ He gave Nye a sulky look and drank his ginger ale in a quick gulp. ‘The last one was a beauty.’

  Nye wasn’t, going to start another wrangle on that score. He waited, knowing Smith couldn’t resist trying to find out what was on his mind.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think,’ Nye said, with mocking satire, ‘ it would do us good to mix socially with all these nice people. You’re a man who enjoys high society. Besides, we don’t want to crawl out of town. Let’s put up one last good act in public and go out with a bang. Can you get tickets?’

  Smith gazed at him doubtfully.

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Fine. Get seats near the front if you can.’

  Before Smith could shape his next question, Leonard got up, paid for his drinks, and went out.

  Chapter Two

  Two days later, in the afternoon, when Dorothy returned from Tynecastle and was going to the pantry, according to her habit, for a glass of milk and a biscuit, Mrs Page, bustling brightly about the house, intercepted her in the hall.

  ‘There you are, Dorrie. I want you to take a little note out to David and Cora.’

  ‘To Sleedon!’ Dorothy protested, making it sound as if it were the North Pole.

  ‘Yes, dear. Your father just called me from the office. We want them to come to lunch Sunday, before the concert.’

  ‘But, Mother, I’ve had a hard day. And it means taking the bus. That old Sleedon rattletrap shakes you apart.’

  ‘You can take your bicycle, dear. You’ve scarcely used it since you got it. It’s a lovely afternoon.’

  ‘The front tyre’s flat.’

  ‘Then blow it up. It’ll do you good. You haven’t been getting nearly enough exercise lately.’

  The reason for this unexpected commission, like the unusual appearance of Henry with David and Cora in the streets of Hedleston, lay in the report which Dr Evans had sent Page from Scarborough. That cheerful psychiatrist, while maintaining his optimism, had suggested that it would be well for David to vary the essential quiet of his life at Sleedon by coming more frequently to town and ‘mixing more with people’. This advice, which bore out the view she had previously expressed to her husband, gratified Mrs Page and put her in a responsive mood. With a smile she slipped the note in Dorothy’s blazer pocket.

  ‘There, dear!’

  ‘Oh, well,’ Dorothy said resignedly. ‘If harm comes of this, Mother, I’ll hold you responsible.’

  Actually, Dorothy was quite pleased to go. She had nothing whatsoever to do; Bob Lewis had phoned her at the art school to say he was working late and couldn’t take her to the movies, and the prospect of a visit to Cora brightened up what had promised to be a dull evening. Although she did not see much of her, she liked her sister-in-law, who could always be depended on to give her a good tea. She went to the coach house and wheeled out her bike, then, having persuaded Hannah to give her a hand with the pump – the rubber end of which tended to blow off at the psychological moment – she set out for Sleedon.

  She had not gone very far, however – only to the corner of Draycot Avenue and Park Street – when she saw someone on the pavement signalling her to stop. Instinctively she braked, drew into the kerb, and jumped off. Only then did she recognize Leonard Nye.

  ‘Well, Miss Dorrie, I’m glad I caught your eye. This is an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘Is it?’ Dorothy said unwillingly.

  She had no particular animus against Nye for his opposition to her father. That had been something quite detached from her own absorbing preoccupations, although it had been exciting, in a way, watching Henry, whom she thought of as not a bad old bird, mucking through trouble in his usual sentimental style, and there had, in fact, been one pleasurable moment when she thought they might all be out in the street, with their goods and chattels, or what was left of them, in the best traditions of Orphans of the Storm. No, the point was more personal. She had her own quarrel with Nye, and while he was smiling all over his face as though everything in the garden were lovely, she hadn’t by any means forgotten what he’d written about her when she spotted his wretched Treasure Man. Admittedly it was some time ago, but it had got her teased to death at the art school – for weeks after, all the meatier bits in the article had been thrown at her. Since then she’d passed him in the street and he’d always taken off his hat to her, but until now they had never spoken to each other.

  ‘I imagined you’d gone,’ she said, in a voice that hoped he had.

  ‘We shall be soon.’ He took no offence. ‘I thought I’d like to say goodbye before I left. Just to show there’s no ill-feeling.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’

  He kept on smiling, not very naturally, but as if he were keeping the look glued on his face.

  ‘I hope not. Your papa has given us a bit of a doing. But, oh, well, in our job we have to learn to take the rough with the smooth.’

  He brought out his cigarettes and offered her one and, not wishing to seem too juvenile, she took it. As he flashed his lighter – he was the type who carried one that always worked – he said:

  ‘Are you off for a spin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a nice-looking machine. A Humber, isn’t it? Have you had it
long?’ Then, as her face reddened slightly, he said quickly, ‘Oh, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to be inquisitive.’

  ‘I was allowed to buy it with part of the money I won from you. The rest my father made me give to charity.’

  ‘Well,’ he said considerately, ‘at least you got some good out of it.’

  Although he pretended not to notice, Dorothy was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable, standing there, puffing amateurishly at the cigarette, in the public street. She often had a weed with the other girls when they were having coffee at the Espresso, but this was different – in fact, completely non-U – and if Henry ever heard of it she knew he’d go off the deep end, and with reason. She groped around for an excuse to leave, but before she could think of one he said:

  ‘I was just on my way to the hotel for a cup of tea. I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m going to have tea with my sister-in-law at Sleedon.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He nodded quickly. ‘I saw her in town the other day. She seemed nice.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘It’s extraordinary, though,’ he meditated pleasantly. ‘ I’ve been two years in Hedleston and never run into her before. She must lead a very quiet life.’

  ‘Yes, she does,’ Dorothy said shortly. ‘ You probably know that my brother’s been quite ill. And she realizes that the country is best for him.’

  ‘I did hear something of that.’ He nodded sympathetically. ‘He’s lucky to have such a good wife. Did they meet when he was in the Army? Was she a nurse?’

  ‘Good gracious, no,’ Dorothy burst out. She was on the point of correcting him rather contemptuously when, with a sudden brain wave, she realized that he was pumping her, exactly as he had done before. It was the same too-pleasant manner, the same indirect way of trying to worm things out of her. This, she thought, really is a bit thick, and seeing a chance to get her own back, instead of snubbing him off, she put on a soft look and laughed.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s just that you’re so wrong. How did you get those ideas in your head?’

  ‘I must be mistaking her for someone else. Who is she, then?’

  ‘Why,’ Dorothy improvised, making it as different as she could, ‘she’s the daughter of an old Scottish friend of Mother’s. She and David have known each other since they were children.’

  ‘Oh!’ he said, looking rather put out.

  ‘Her parents are both very close friends of ours. We all used to take holidays together. At St Andrews. They had a house quite near … Banksholme.… Of course, that was before she grew up and went away to teach.’

  ‘To teach? Where?’

  ‘At a girls’ school in the north of Scotland … Aberdeen, to be exact.’

  ‘I see.’ He sounded more disappointed than ever. ‘What was her name before she married?’

  ‘Elizabeth Castleton,’ Dorothy answered, not batting an eyelash. Where it came from she didn’t know, probably out of a film she’d seen, but it sounded rather well. ‘They’re a very old West Lothian family, though not terribly well off. He uncle was a writer to the signet.’

  ‘Castleton,’ he repeated, as though trying to place the name, but failing, naturally enough, to do so. He tried it again a couple of times, frowning hard at the nearest lamppost, but without any luck. To Dorothy, pleased at having confounded him, it seemed a good moment to leave. She adjusted the pedals and took a preliminary hop.

  ‘I’m afraid I must be off. Elizabeth is expecting me.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He came to himself, dropping his cigarette, but forgetting to pick up his charm. ‘ Nice to have seen you again. So long.’

  ‘Goodbye, Dorothy said politely.

  As she swung round the corner of the avenue she glanced back over her shoulder. He was still standing there, with a morose expression, looking more cast down than ever.

  Soon she was out in the country, and as she sped along she felt well satisfied with herself. She’d evened the score. For some dirty reason he’d wanted her disclose Elizabeth’s, or rather – she smiled – Cora’s humble origin, and she was jolly glad she’d dished him. She sang for a bit, riding with no hands, improvising on the name Castleton, and keeping up a good pace; it wasn’t long before she drew near to Sleedon. As she coasted down the hill into the village she caught sight of Cora walking on the pier. A minute later she had bumped her way out over the rough stones. Cora turned just as she reached the end of the breakwater.

  ‘Dorothy! What a nice surprise! Oh, do be careful, dear. It’s dangerous on the bike.’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ Dorothy said, but she stopped making circles round Cora and got off – she could see that it made her nervous when she went near the edge. ‘I brought a note from Mother.’

  ‘For David?’

  ‘No, for you. Why not? Don’t look so startled.’ Dorothy produced the letter and handed it over.

  Cora took it doubtfully, with an air of misgiving, which was natural enough in view of Mrs Page’s previous treatment of her.

  But when she’d opened and read it her expression changed. Her face shone with pleasure.

  ‘Your mother is very kind, Dorothy. She’s asked us to dinner – I mean to lunch – tomorrow.’

  ‘So what? Our grub is nothing to write home about.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that … I just appreciate the thought.’ She folded the letter carefully, put it back in the envelope, as if it were something to be treasured, then straightened up. ‘Let’s go up to the cottage.’

  ‘Don’t you want to stay and look at the briny?’ I know you like to. You’re out here a lot.’

  ‘Only when David’s working.’ She smiled. ‘ Now I’m going to give you your tea.’

  They started off, wheeling the bike between them. The quality in her sister-in-law that attracted Dorothy could be summed up in her own phrase: Cora was decent. She was, Dorrie reflected, quite without pretence, never making out that she was glad to see you when she wasn’t, but really being glad, and meaning it. She never tried to be anything but herself, and she would take endless trouble for other people. The way she looked after David, cooking and washing and mending, making a wonderful job of the garden, besides putting up with all his highbrow airs and graces and treating his literary labours as though he were a combination of Shakespeare and Milton, struck Dorrie as the prize example of her decency. But there was something else about her that was hard to explain, a sort of warm softness, a sense of strain that showed through her quiet manner, that seemed to keep her on edge and make her sad. However, at present, she wasn’t like that, but really in good spirits.

  In the kitchen, while Dorothy set the table, Cora made tea and stacks of hot buttered toast and opened a tin of sardines. Then, in spite of Dorothy’s telling her not to bother, she whipped up a batter and made a batch of those drop pancakes that simply melted in one’s mouth.

  ‘Cora,’ Dorothy said, when her sister-in-law sat down at last with her own cup of tea, ‘how come you’re so wizard at these pancakes?’

  ‘Well, Dorrie, if you promise to keep a secret, I’ll tell you.’ She spoke gaily, still lifted up by Mrs Page’s invitation, and she looked unusually pretty sitting there, flushed from the stove, and with the air from the open window ruffling her thick hair. ‘It’s because one summer I did nothing else. I had that kind of job, you see. And I must have made hundreds of pancakes for hungry trippers. Yes, hundreds, I did.’

  ‘Good gracious! I hope you ate some yourself.’

  ‘No, I didn’t … not much. The smell of the fat gets you down … when you’re among it all day.’

  It sounded so comic Dorothy burst out laughing.

  ‘I wish I’d known that when I was talking to Nosy Parker Nye this afternoon. If I’d told him that Elizabeth Castleton made pancakes for a living I’d really have raised, his hair on end.’

  Cora, half smiling, did not understand in the least. Dorothy had to explain the joke, so between mouthful
s of tea and pancake she gave a full account of her meeting with Nye. She thought it would amuse Cora no end, but to her surprise she didn’t seem to think it funny at all. In fact, all the pleasure went out of her face and she appeared quite disturbed, taking on her anxious look again.

  ‘What could he want,’ she asked, ‘stepping you like that … in the street? He didn’t have no right.’

  ‘Oh, that’s how they are … these reporters. Always trying to take people down a peg. You know what a sweet job he did on me.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, as if thinking things over. ‘But that was different. I don’t even know the man. And he certainly never knew me.’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t know you now.’ Dorothy laughed. ‘Believe me, Miss Castleton, I really led him down the garden path.’

  ‘Did you? That was smart of you, Dorrie.’ She shook her head, as though trying to brush something off and not quite succeeding, for after a pause she said, ‘ I thought they’d gone … all the Chronicle lot.’

  ‘They will soon. He told me so himself. In fact, he actually said goodbye.’

  ‘Did he?’ She seemed reassured, and her expression lightened. ‘We’ll be well rid of them. Your father … all of us. From the very beginning they’ve been up to no good. Well … it’s time for David’s tea.’ With a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece she rang a little bell on the table beside her, then smiled at Dorothy. ‘ That’s our signal. He’s so busy, dear, don’t bother him with what we’ve been talking about.’

  A few minutes later David appeared. Dorothy, who had not seen him for some time, was surprised to find him so much thinner, and his manner was more remote than ever, but he seemed pleased to see her. He took a cup of tea from Cora and, standing with one foot on the fender, began to sip it slowly, in the statuesque manner which he usually adopted in the presence of his sister.

  ‘Try one of these pancakes,’ Dorothy said. ‘ They’re terribly good.’